


appassionata

by reddoorandlemontree



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-07 06:30:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12227472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddoorandlemontree/pseuds/reddoorandlemontree
Summary: a collection of short little ficlets(just little ideas that popped into my head that wouldn't really go with full length works)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i have another one of these little collections but these were too long to go with that so... here's this! enjoy and tell me what you thing, maybe?

First, was the baker's daughter. He had been too young to truly understand what being a Snow meant. He vaguely remembers her chestnut hair, always in pigtails with a ribbon at each end. He had kissed her on the cheek when she snuck him a lemon cake on his sixth name day. When she and the baker had moved to Wintertown, it had broken his little green heart.

Then, there was Ros. Gorgeous Ros, with her beautiful body inviting him, yet he couldn't bring himself to touch her. Even the possibility of condemning an innocent babe to the life of a bastard was unbearable. He had fled the brothel.

When he finally gave into want, he was still but a boy, and she a woman grown. Ygritte had been fiery like her hair, dangerous like her arrows. He thought he could never love again after her.

Val... stunning, powerful Val. A warrior princess, she was, and one that had made it clear that she would have him. Still, the ghost of his first love hung heavy over his heart, and duty over his mind.

Now, as he holds Daenerys's hand, he can't help but hope against hope.


	2. Chapter 2

" _Daenerys_ ," he slurs, trying to stifle a smile as she suckles a mark onto his neck, "focus."

"I don't want to learn why those lords fought over some Gardener throne. _I_ ," she said, lifting herself up to sit on his torso, legs falling to either side, "want to make love to you again. The rest of the world can wait, Jon Snow."

He smiles up at her, twirling a strand of hair between his fingers. "We'll reach White Harbor at sun-up." He means for it to sound reprimanding, for she needs to know the land she is to rule. Still, it's tinged with a sadness that she understands all too well.

"Fine," she huffs, lying down to rest her head on his chest, and pulling the furs up around them.

As she begins to recite the histories of the great northern houses once again, he tries to imagine being separated from her for the next... what -- day, while they stayed at New Castle? Then the next fortnight on the Kingsroad to Winterfell? What then? Even more lords and ladies to please, and a Great War that gives no guarantees to a life afterward.

"What are you thinking about?"

Jon hadn't noticed that she'd finished her recount of the Manderlys, and the question catches him off-guard.

She looks at him, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

In answer, he surges forward to meet her, capturing her lips with urgency, yet she can feel him trying to slow down, trying to savor the moment because it might as well be their last.

She responds in earnest.


	3. Chapter 3

  
When he brought the news to her bed chamber, that night, it was as if all in the world stilled -- her breath, her heart, the war, the dead.

It is a vicious, numbing pain, yet the words fail to take root. _No_ , she thinks _, it can't be. No, no,_ no _._

_Viserion._

Her hand goes to her mouth as a shuddering breath leaves her icy lungs and streaming tears leave trails on her color-drained cheeks.

She drops to her knees before the fire in the hearth, then, and her hand reaches out for his sword belt.

He tries to pull away, fearing what she might do with a blade in her state of grief. When her fingers close around the dragonglass dagger, he takes a hold of her wrist, eyes pleading.

She breaks free with unexpected strength and doesn't hesitate a moment before letting the dagger slip through her intricate braids, for she could never be less worthy of them. The Dothraki cut off their braids as signs of defeat and this... this is so much deeper that defeat. This is desolation.

The dagger clatters on the stone floor with silver locks falling beside it. A ragged sound of despair escapes her lips, pulling at his heart to inch closer, to comfort her, to tell her everything will be okay -- but will it?

Even so, he pulls her to her feet and wraps her in an embrace that cries a million apologies at once.


End file.
